Fall From Grace
by chococrack21
Summary: It is not, nor ever was, about his reputation.
1. Chapter 1

Fall From Grace

Tate/Violet

Rated M for violence and sexual situations

A/N: There are spoilers through Piggy, Piggy. This is written only with the information given through that episode, so something might break canon later down the line. I'm writing as the series unfolds, and the twists are too complex to try and keep up with from chapter to chapter.

It is not, nor ever was, about his reputation.

He didn't have to prove how twisted and misunderstood he was to the school. He didn't have to dress in those overpriced black pants with chains and straps hanging off the already overly embellished cloth. The black eyeliner and matching dyed hair was too dramatic and ironic for his taste. And doing drugs in a group at school was such a waste of a high. People always ruined the experience by talking too much or losing it all over the floor because they tried to prove what a badass they are.

Right.

He wore whatever clothes his mother told him to because it shut her up faster than arguing with her. He bathed and cut his hair because the stench of body odor was sickening, not tough. And drugs were strictly an escape to be enjoyed alone. To forget the day.

He didn't have friends because there was too much drama with them. They always wanted to know what they thought of each other or talk about the people they hated and who hated them back. He never had anything to contribute to those conversations. He didn't hate anyone. He couldn't be bothered by anyone, but he definitely didn't hate them.

Not to mention that he didn't care. He never had. He didn't give a damn what anyone thought about him long before they moved into the house.

And he suspected that neither did she.

He also wondered what it would be like to kill before they moved into the house. He'd be damned if the house took credit for his fascination with violence. He wondered what it would be like to put a bullet in someone's head. To see the blood spatter. What does it sound like when a bullet hits flesh? What would it feel like to take a life? To play God? No, it had nothing to do with reputation and everything to do with power.

It wasn't until they moved into the house that he felt he really needed it, though. The things in that basement.

And he suspected that so did she.

He lay there, his arms around her, unable to shut his mind off.

It had just clicked. Everything. The reason she had been so distant. The pills. The feelings.

His feelings.

She hadn't said anything about them. Not then and not now, a week later. But she had stopped pushing him away. She wasn't as distant. Although he wasn't sure if it was because she cared and was afraid to admit it, or if she just didn't want to be alone.

She moved then, just a little hitch in her breath and he knew that she couldn't shut her mind off either. It was one of the rare moments she let him hold her. Proof of how exhausted and beaten she really was. She told him that she was fearless. Scared of nothing. Which is a lie. It was a lie before she moved into the house. He knew it as soon as she said it. But she didn't. When she said it, she believed it. The only thing she had to do was prove it to herself every day.

It didn't take a shrink to figure out that those pills showed how badly she thought she had failed. How far she had fallen from the grace that was power.

She moved again, this time not even pretending to be asleep and reached for a cigarette. The faint click of her cheap, plastic lighter was followed by an inhale.

A pause.

And then the deep exhale of content from Violet, blowing out the remaining smoke. She pushed Tate then, forcing him to roll over and give her room to lie on her back, propped against the pillows. After taking another drag she let her hand fall limp off the side of the bed, scattering ashes on the floor she'd have to clean up later. But for just a few seconds, her mind was only full of hot smoke and contentment.

Tate loved this about her. The absolute calm that smoking brought her. It was the only time he would describe her features as soft. She looked how he used to feel when he spent his afternoons locked in this room with his own vices. Vices that were much stronger than a simple, store bought stick of nicotine.

Part of him wants to show her how much better those drugs are. How much better they are than those sleeping pills. It's the part that wants to corrupt and defile her in more ways than one with absolutely no remorse, no guilt. It would be all hot and sticky and hard. There'd be blood and tears with so little air between them there would hardly be enough to breath. He would take everything from her and in the end they'd both be scarred, because he knew she'd fight back. She'd probably take as much from him as he would her. He also knew she'd like it.

The part that's here right now breathes a sigh of relief that all it takes to calm her mind, even if for just a second, is a cigarette. That she won't need stronger drugs today to clear her mind. And this part would do anything for her, would go farther than just sticking his fingers down her throat to save her. This part knows he probably will have to. Probably sooner, rather than later. But right now, the part that is here just lies next to her, because that is all that needs to be done at this moment. And when the right moment comes, he wants more.

But his sigh of relief snapped her out of her calm and reality came back in a rush. In one moment, her features changed from relaxed to tense. It was subtle, not even noticeable to her parents. But he saw. Of course, her parents didn't watch her sleep (or not sleep) every night. So they wouldn't know that the only difference in her face when she was asleep was that her lips stayed parted. Not all the way, just slightly right in the middle, rather than the straight line she kept them in while pretending to be asleep.

She looked at him, annoyed with his indiscretion of breathing and searched his face for a way to make the calm come back.

It may not have been the right moment, but it was a good enough moment so he wouldn't have to feel so damn powerless in making her happy. Or distracted. He would settle for distracted as he reached over and took the last of the cigarette out of her hand and put it out in the makeshift ashtray she had on her bedside table. Hell, he would even take pissed if it kept her from looking as broken as she did right before he turned to take her face in his hands and kiss her.

She sank into the bed, letting her body go limp and passive as he kissed her. But she kissed back. And he may have moved to straddle her, his two hands still holding the sides of face but she controlled the kiss. He could give her that power. It was her tongue that begged entry in to his mouth, to leisurely tease and nip at his lips. He let her do whatever she wanted, which was less than a hardship on his part. She was soft, and warm, and so tiny she fit inside his arms with room to spare. He could have stayed kissing her like that forever.

And he suspected that so could she.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

This is a shorter and much more graphic chapter. I'm working the maturity level up every chapter, just so you know.

There IS going to be at least one more chapter, though I'll try for more.

And all of the reviews have been wonderful. Keep them coming! The more I get the more inspiration I have to write. Enjoy :)

She had actually fallen asleep this time. He could see the slight part of her lips, even though they were puffy and red, almost raw from being kissed all afternoon. She didn't answer her mother when she knocked and told her dinner was ready. She didn't even wake up after dinner when her mother came back to tell her there was a plate of leftovers in the fridge she could heat up later if she was hungry.

He was careful to be still this time. She was pressed into his body again. One hand was wrapped around her waist, holding her to him. His head propped up on his other hand so he could look down at her and make sure she stayed asleep. He made sure not to breathe too loudly or give into any of the temptations that told him to touch her more. To give in and move her hair behind her ear so he could see more of her face. To lift the bottom of her shirt up and touch the skin on her hip bone and stomach to see how long it takes for her to get Goosebumps.

That caused the other part of him to invade his thoughts. He couldn't count the number of times that part fantasized about not just watching her sleep, but waking her up. Surprising her, scaring her, even if she wouldn't admit it. Ripping the clothes from her body and making her tremble, cry out and beg for him.

He loved it when they begged.

But the noise would wake her parents, and he wasn't so sure he would be able to stop once he started. Not for anything, including her parents. Even this part knew that wouldn't go over very well, so he would shove the panties he took off her hips, soaking at the crotch, and shoving them into her mouth. Yeah, he'd make sure that the wet part went directly against her tongue and he would watch her eyes widen and hair fly all over her face as she struggled under him. Shocked at her taste and trying to remember to breathe through her nose. He wouldn't forget to pin her arms above her head with his other hand. It was lucky she was so small and with no upper body strength. He'd grind his hips into hers and lean down to bite, hard, on her neck. His actions reminding her he was going to hurt her, but it would feel so good. That she would want it whatever way he was going to do it, no matter what she thought was happening now.

She would stop struggling but not moaning, the sounds only muffled and incomprehensible around the cotton in her mouth. Her head thrown back against the pillows, giving him better access to her throat, her collarbone. Letting him bite hard enough to leave teeth marks, and pulling on her flesh enough to leave bruises for later. He would trust her; either part would, and give her arms freedom again so he could move down her body. Latching on to her little breasts, continuing to bite and suckle and twist the hard nipples poking from her body. He'd grab her right at her ribs and hold her tight, making sure not to let her squirm away. Like that would have been an option.

But the action would make her wiggle even more and claw her hands into his hair. He'd squeeze even tighter and the panties in her mouth barely did any good, the noise she made was desperate and loud. His mouth would move from her breasts to her ribs and he would bite each one. Lightly at first, but by the time he got to the last he would grab on so hard she would be beside herself, thrashing to get out of his grasp. Her body confused whether it was hurt or being pleasured.

His arm started to squeeze around the peacefully sleeping Violet in reaction to that part's fantasies. He held his breath and did everything he could to relax his arm without disturbing her any more. Anything. Constance? No, that made him angry. Dr. Harmon? No, that part would love for him to walk in right now and see his precious daughter in his arms. If she was so precious then why would he cheat on her mother, split up the family? No, no, that wasn't calming either.

He looked across the room to the chalk board. She still hadn't erased the "I LOVE YOU" he had tediously written in his best handwriting. His arm relaxed as he stared at what he wrote. Three little words. Three little words were enough to calm him. They were also enough to terrify him if they hadn't been reciprocated. They did terrify him more than the things in the basement before he knew what she had felt.

She hadn't said them. She didn't write them next to his on the chalk board.

But he knew. He knew the second she let him lie down with her that day. When she spooned him and held him, just like this. He knew. And he would do anything to keep her feeling those things.

His grip had loosened and she was still asleep. She stayed asleep this time.

No, he wouldn't give in to the other's fantasies. He would give her what he could for as long as he was able.


End file.
